


i’ll be yours and you’ll be

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, but only three and a half weddings and no funeral, four weddings and a funeral vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21295766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: harry is fed up of weddings he’s not the groom of; fed up of everyone being in love when he isn’t
Relationships: Ben Chilwell/Harry Winks, Dele Alli/Eric Dier, Jesse Lingard/Marcus Rashford
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80





	i’ll be yours and you’ll be

**Author's Note:**

> this is extremely cheesy you have been warned
> 
> dele and eric are the devil and angel on harry’s shoulder, harry ropes jan into pretending to be his boyfriend and he’s a little bit easy, among other things
> 
> oh and concept from four weddings? i hate that film but here you are

Harry can feel his heartbeat beating behind his eyebrows. Opening his eyes progresses the beating to a steady migraine so he groans, rolls over until his face is pressed firmly into the pillow; falls asleep again, wakes up when his door clatters open, and catches sight of himself in the mirror, red line marked into the side of his cheek, drool glittering along it. Dele snorts.

“Rise and shine, princess.” He smirks, whipping a pair of dress trousers at his head. “Dier’s already waiting in the car. He says you’ve got 10 minutes before he skins you alive.”

Harry grumbles without saying very much, jumble of noise he means to convey as _Eric would never say that_, but Dele is already trotting out the room with an incredibly irritating click of dress shoe. Harry whines and rolls out of bed, landing on legs that crumble a little under his dead weight. His suit is draped over the back of the chair; just pulling it on makes him scowl, palms smoothing across the creases like his hair isn’t matted on one side and fluffy on the other. He slides a tub of gel into his pocket and leaves the room without picking up paracetamol, something he only realises 20 minutes down the A1.

“I might actually vomit.” He declares, head cradled in his hands. “Eric, I might actually vomit.”

Even through the thread of his fingertips he can see Eric roll his eyes, buttoned up to the neck like a Mafia hitman, hair freshly shaved and doing nothing to lessen that image.

“That’s what happens when you get absolutely smashed the night before your close mate’s wedding.” Dele chimes in from the back seat. Harry can feel his knees pressing into the back of his seat. “You twat.”

“Dele.” Eric scolds quickly. “Nothing we can do now.”

Harry groans, head smacking into the window as he lolls it back dramatically. Swallowing reminds him that there’s sick waiting in his throat; not swallowing lets it rest far too close to the surface. He swallows frantically again, coughs in a panicked fit and rolls the window down until damp air coats his face.

“You’re such a drama queen.” Dele drawls. He’s recovered from his temper tantrum at being relegated to back seat. “Can’t hold your drink.”

“Shut up, Dele.” Eric and Harry snap in unison, and in that moment Harry wants to clamber across the gearstick and smother Eric’s face in kisses.

“Harry’s gonna be devastated you’ve turned up in such a state.” Dele tuts. “His lovely country wedding ruined.”

Harry grits his teeth. The tension in his jaw is almost a welcome respite from the intense nausea so he concentrates on it for a while, until the desire to snap at Dele recedes. Eric sighs when things level out into near-enough silence, turning the radio on loud. Harry fiddles with his hands, fiddles with his phone, makes Dele play eye-spy with him until they’ve mentioned ‘road’ three times each and then, of course, the conversation turns to weddings.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Dele smirks, tapping a rhythm into the back of Harry’s seat. “All that love in the air. Beautiful.”

Harry whines again and Eric pats his knee. They are lovely; Harry loves weddings. He loves cake and dancing and free bubbly and getting dressed up and _love_, but he’s so tired of wedding after wedding after wedding alone, lonely; quiet in the corner, drunk by the main, pathetically needy for attention of any kind.

Harry looks and feels slightly more presentable when they pile out of the car. It’s a mansion covered in ivy, milling with people in fascinators and ill-fitting suits. The gravel squelches under their feet as they march towards the door, sky pale grey and chilly. Dele points out Harry sandwiched between a thousand family members all fussing over his hair and suit, smoothing down the lapels and giving him increasingly intense pep talks if the growing terror on his face is anything to go by.

“Bless him.” Eric chuckles, leading them onto a pew, Harry between Dele and Eric and dangerously close to falling asleep on one of their shoulders.

His eyelids are closed, just a little, when Dele shakes his shoulder aggressively. “Winksy.” He hisses. “Pay attention.”

Harry startles, steps on Dele’s toes but then pinches his elbow in thanks when everyone stands for the bride. Despite it all, his own pathetic loneliness and hangover induced by last night’s wedding fear, the opening piano and creak of the doors as they open flutters in Harry’s chest like an escaped butterfly. He smiles without even realising, lips dry and cracked lifting up at the corners, cheeks pink and warm with contentment as Kate enters onto the aisle, arm in arm with her father, beaming so wide Harry can feel the ache in his own cheeks.

She looks beautiful, Harry thinks dreamily, childish resentment forgotten as he stares at the lace of her dress and the tiara in her hair, glinting in the light through the high windows. Harry watches her family dab their eyes with tissues, grinning helplessly and the butterfly flaps in a panic; he watches the dopey, awestruck look on H’s face, eyes shining with so much adoration he almost feels voyeuristic for witnessing it, and warmth pools in his stomach and his _eyes_. Dele snorts next to him and Eric brushes the corner of his suit across his eyes. Harry smiles softly, and dozes with his eyes open for the whole ceremony. 

“You look stunning.” Harry beams when he can get a hold of Kate later, in between distant family member and distant family member, champagne flute held in her hand. The demure pink glow to her cheeks is probably blush; Harry’s own is the four glasses of free Prosecco he’s already necked. 

Kate smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so Harry can’t miss the glint of her ring. Jealousy settles in his throat much like his hangover earlier but it’s easily ignorable in the midst of his genuine happiness too. She reaches towards him with her ringed hand to stroke his cheek softly. Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to preen under the attention or move away disgruntled. 

“Oh, Winksy.” She smiles fondly and Harry thinks maybe the flush isn’t _all_ blusher. “Don’t worry, darling, that’ll be you soon.” 

Harry goes to argue back, maybe mope a little but an old woman hunched over and shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat pulls Kate down for a kiss on the cheek and Harry knows dismissal when he sees it. He finds Dele and Eric by the drinks table with Marcus and Kyle, all laughing raucously and pointing at random people drifting between the tables as they await the speeches. 

“Alright, Harry?” Kyle beams, reaching across to punch him in the shoulder. Harry tries not to immediately massage the point of contact; it aches rather more than he’d like to let on. “We’re just talking about how that bloke _definitely_ fancies Marcus.” 

Marcus turns to stare at the wall, face buried in his empty glass and eyes wide and flustered. Dele is pointing him towards a man with a crazy smile and a pathetic covering of hair over his chin; he’s laughing loudly with the girls he’s with, but even a minute watching him shows he glances at Marcus out of the corner of his eyes thrice, each gaze lingering a little longer. 

“Go speak to him!” Harry tells Marcus earnestly, even as something that was slowly rebuilding crumbles again in his chest. Christ, he’s so lonely.

Marcus shakes his head firmly, holding his hands out as if to say _seriously? _

Kyle clucks his tongue. “D’you fancy him?” 

Marcus whines and hides his face in his hands. Eric rubs his arm consolingly and Harry giggles. 

Dele hoots. “Ooo, Marcus is in _love_.” 

Marcus bats them all away and wriggles out to take his seat, muttering to himself and visibly flustered. Harry tries not to listen to the voice in his head demanding he sulk, fixing a smile on his face he hopes is genuine enough as he takes his seat, fortunately between Dele and Eric.

”I wish Jan was here.” Harry grumbles, cheeks hot with alcohol consumption, pushing his mushrooms around his plate with the tip of his fork. 

Dele rolls his eyes and stabs the offending mushroom with his fork, feeding it to Eric behind his head. “Stop being such a little cow.” He snaps. “He isn’t here, get over it.”

Eric sighs tiredly and tells him off lightly. Harry knows they’re having a silent conversation behind his head but he’s too busy miserably wishing Jan was here to alleviate the pain of third wheeling, to make him laugh and dance with him even when he’s too drunk to do much more than stumble, tell him with that goofy, but somehow reassuring, smile that his time will come. Too bad he’s in Italy, doing something or other cultural Harry pretended to care about. 

Harry thinks of him again during the first dance, _knowing_ that if he were here he’d drag Harry onto the dance floor before Harry and Kate even had time to shine, spinning him around and dancing so unashamedly shit Harry would have no choice but to join in. As it stands he watches couple after couple swirl around wrapped up in each other, Marcus and the man eyeing him up chatting leant against the wall in the corner. Harry sits, legs spread wide, on an ugly metal frame, carpet covered chair. He’s onto gin and tonics now, and his eyes blur a little as he watches Eric kiss up Dele’s neck playfully, Harry and Kate completely lost in each other, rotating in their own little bubble. 

He’s so drunk that the sight of red high heels where he’s staring at the floor is actually a relief. His gaze skirts up to a girl around his age, petite and pretty, naturally painted face and long hair in a neat bun. She smiles at him, flirtily Harry would guess, although he can’t be sure with the state of his eyesight.

”You alright?” He hiccups. “‘M Harry.”

The girl giggles and it’s  a nice enough sound. “Chloe.” She tells him. “Come have a dance with me.”

Harry respects her confidence if nothing else, so he gives her his hand to drag him up with some difficulty. 

“Sorry, love.” He mutters into her ear, arrested by the strength of her perfume. “Had a few.”

She laughs, easy and melodic, and Harry wonders whether if he shut his eyes he could just about manage it, the drunkenness would definitely help, and it’d surely alleviate the loneliness wedged firmly in his chest-

“Winksy.” Dele hisses as they stumble passed. “What the fuck are you playing at? You’re _gay_.”

Harry scoffs and waves his middle finger around without looking, leaving a clumsy hand on Chloe’s waist to navigate her away from Dele and Eric glaring at him, and closer towards Marcus and the newly-acquired love of his life currently turning his neck seven shades of purple. Harry stares wistfully at the two of them, growing slightly slack jawed and losing concentration just long enough to not notice the hands on his shoulders until they’re tugging him backwards and away from Chloe with her mouth gaping open. Harry giggles. She looks like a fish. 

“Mate.” Eric mutters tersely. “Harry, you’re 23. There’s no need for you to get shacked up already.”

Harry whines and presses into Eric’s chest. He rubs a hand in his eyes. “Why does nobody love me.” He whimpers.

Eric shushes him gently, scratches behind his ear a bit like he’s a dog. He snuggles into the touch like one too. He can see Dele is attempting to hide his laughter but he coos and wraps an arm around Harry regardless, ruffling his hair and Harry knows he’s drunk and fed up because he can’t even muster the energy to be bothered by it.  He presses into Dele’s side one last time, smiling dopily when he feels a kiss planted on the top of his head, and peels himself away. 

”C’mon, Winksy.” Dele says softly, linking arms with him. “Let’s dance to Come On Eileen.”

* * *

”I can’t believe Marcus and Jesse are getting married already.” Harry declares maybe too loudly in the registry office. “They’ve known each other two minutes.”

H sighs and looks at Kate for support. “When you know, you know, Winksy.”

Harry grumbles wordlessly to himself and stares at his untied shoelaces. He’s just considering whether or not he can be arsed to tie them when the room suddenly hushes, Eric smacking his arm to get his attention. They stand, and Jesse and Marcus walk in together, and it’s the first same-sex wedding Harry’s been to so he has nothing to compare it to, but the two of them walking arm in arm, beaming at their own feet nervously and so in love, is truly the sweetest thing Harry might have seen. He suddenly feels guilty for mocking them. 

The ceremony is far shorter than Harry’s, which leaves a lot less time for Harry to grow melancholy staring, but there’s no sequinned dress to take his mind off the way he looks at Marcus and Jesse, hands held loosely and smiling shyly at each other, and feels nothing but pure desire. Not for them - never ever, Harry shudders - but for what they have. It’s a different pain than Harry and Kate’s wedding, something that bites into his heart a little deeper, tears off a chunk a little bigger. It’s a vision of what Harry could have with someone, but doesn’t, never has and, he’s convinced, never will. But he claps until his palms feel raw and dampens the edge of his suit cuff wiping his eyes and plasters the two of them in kisses the second he gets the chance. 

“Congratulations, you two.” He grins, voice taut with emotion that makes two pairs of eyes soften. He hates to think they pity him, but they pull him into the gap between them, four arms wrapped around him and holding him close, and he breaks just a little but in the nicest way. 

“Thank you, Winksy.” Jesse says, and it’s maybe the most sincere Harry has ever heard him. The wedding band on his fingers flashes like a beacon, identical to Marcus’, and Harry sighs. 

“So when are you two biting the bullet?” Harry teases Dele and Eric in the cab between the ceremony and reception. They seem astoundingly loved up today, Dele half-sprawled across Eric’s lap sober; Harry dreads to think what they’ll be like a few drinks down. 

Eric glances down at Dele, lip caught between his teeth. “We’ll know when the time’s right.” He says quietly, completely at odds with Harry’s mocking tone, and Dele hums softly and kisses his cheek and Harry has to stare out of the window and concentrate very hard on the young child having a tantrum at the traffic lights. Harry knows how they feel. 

“Are they taking the - please tell me they’re taking the piss.” Harry gawps, stunned. The seating plan in front of them is so offensive he’s close to snapping it in half. 

Dele snorts, dragging Eric away with the hand he has permanently stuck in his back pocket today. “Catch you later, loser.” He cackles, picking up a glass of free bubbly on his way past a moving waiter and downing it in one clean swallow that was all annoyingly smooth. Harry sighs.

He’s just trying to remember the correct and proper order for using the cutlery, what the little knife is for and the medium-sized fork, when a hand clasps over his shoulder. 

“Alright, mate.” A clear, pleasant voice says. The chair next to him is scraped back and a man slides into it. “We’ve been put next to each other.”

Harry stares silently for a minute that is definitely rude. The man is smiling at him, more than politely, white rows of straight teeth and little peek of pink tongue. His face is so painfully symmetrical Harry isn’t sure if he wants to punch it out of shape or cover it in worshipping kisses. His wide smile becomes more of a smirk, and it only strengthens the two feelings; Harry supposes he could do both. 

“Sorry.” He stutters out suddenly, holding his hand out. “Sorry, hiya. I’m Harry.”

The man takes his hand firmly, palm warm and softer than Harry was expecting but hardened on his fingertips and the top of his palm. “Ben.” He grins.

He’s smiling endlessly, tucking himself in and reaching for his glass of wine. His legs spread under the table, and that normally drives Harry up the wall (some stubborn part of him still wants to nag about it) but the press of Ben’s thigh against his, warm like a promise, is more than enough to stun him silent. 

“So.” Ben begins, cutting his starter up all neat. “Tell me about yourself.”

Harry hums, having decided minutes ago his best course of action was not looking at Ben lest he do something he regret like blurt out how fit he is or decide to do something incredibly stupid like fall in love.

“Dunno.” Harry says, and then curses himself with all the English swear words he knows and the few Spanish he’s got from his grandma. “Mate of Marcus’. I assume you’re Jesse’s?”

Ben nods enthusiastically around a mouthful of food, waiting to swallow before he speaks and Harry knows his eyes are soft and goopy as he watches, listens carefully to every word coming from Ben’s mouth, voice so lovely Harry is fantasising it saying some very different words before they’ve even got to pudding.

“This is my second wedding in about as many months, y’know.” Harry tells Ben earnestly when everyone is lazy and slow from their full meals. He’s easily working his way through a fourth, or maybe fifth, glass of wine. “Just that time of life, innit?”

Ben hums. He cocks his head to the side, strand of hair falling across his eyes and Harry’s hand is floating in the no man’s land between them before Ben tucks it behind his ear himself, making no reference to Harry’s palm awkwardly hovering in the air. His smile softens, and Harry has to bring his hand back in and sit on the both of them to stop himself from doing something utterly ridiculous.

“Gets a bit draining, doesn’t it?” Ben says easily in reply.

Harry nods eagerly and Ben chuckles softly, left hand leaving his wine glass and Harry thinks it’s to run a finger along his jawline or cheekbone, curve of his lips maybe, but he just brushes a little white feather off the shoulder of Harry’s suit. Harry still sighs.

“I think about what my wedding would be like all the time.” Harry tells him, tongue loose. “Big but not too big, just everyone I care about and it’d be the best food ever for the dinner, like sausage and mash because everyone likes that, and something chocolatey for pudding. And the speeches wouldn’t be too long, because that’s bare boring for everyone, innit, but also because I think they’re kind of stupid, like. If you love someone that much, I want them to know already. I don’t think I need to make an announcement about that, and then for the first dance -“

Harry cuts himself off because Ben is laughing, so softly it curls across Harry’s skin like the light brush of a hand, and it takes everything he has not to squirm in his seat. He blushes, cheeks hot and slowly reddening, colour worsening magenta when he hears a wolf-whistle in the background that Dele is definitely responsible for.

“You’re missing the first dance, lovebirds!” He sing-songs and Harry has to smile at Ben apologetically and gesture lamely to the dance floor; Ben looks irritatingly smug.

Ben stands close behind him as they watch, fabric of their suits rustling together. Standing up has made all the alcohol rush to Harry’s head and he feels hot and feverish, looking at Ben without considering how disturbing that probably is for a near-stranger. It feels like they sway together for seconds, minutes, hours, and then Ben laughs softly, perfectly confident and totally in control, and moves closer into him. Harry’s head is turned into Ben’s neck and he likes how warm Ben’s skin is and he likes how he’s made him forget his staunch resentment of weddings, and he just likes Ben. He likes everything so much, in that moment.

“I love everything in the world.” Harry tells Ben lowly, words brushing across his skin and Ben hums, squeezing his shoulder and says something that sounds like _cheesepuff_ but Harry doesn’t pay much attention because - “Oh my God, Ben, I _love_ this song.”

Ben sniggers, but lets Harry lead him onto the dance floor. Harry takes a moment to think about how proud Jan would be of him for initiating the dancing, before he feels Ben’s hot breath against the back of his neck and all rational thought evaporates. It’s not all couples, but it mostly is, even though Harry doesn’t notice. He’s too busy stamping his feet in an odd rhythm, bellowing the lyrics out so loud he can feel his throat growing hoarse, and when Neil Diamond talks about reaching out, Harry beams at Ben so wide he can feel it hurting his lips and Ben shakes his head with the silliest grin and kisses him.

Harry breathes out against Ben’s lips, heart thundering in his chest, beating a tattoo against his ribcage. Sweet Caroline is drowned out by _Ben_, whatever that means, and Harry remembers himself just enough to open his mouth to the flick of Ben’s tongue and God, his mouth is so warm and wet, lips soft, surface of his tongue rough against Harry’s.

Ben’s hand is kneading his ass, other palm stroking through his hair, and he tugs just slightly, barely noticeable, but Harry notices and he whines. Ben laughs against his mouth, just an exhalation of breath that Harry can guess is a giggle, and they break apart all pink cheeks and slick mouths.

“Fucking hell.” Harry mumbles. His voice is hoarse and roughened.

“Fucking hell, indeed.” Ben agrees. He squeezes where his hand is still on Harry’s ass and Harry jolts forwards, surprised. It’s almost a relief when Ben just laughs, again.

Harry threads his arms around Ben’s neck, tucking his face into the soft grey of his immaculate suit and lets him rock them gently, nipping at his neck sometimes or mumbling silly things that make Harry delirious others. Over his shoulder he catches sight of Dele and Eric wrapped up in each other, impossibly close, Dele’s head resting on Eric’s shoulder and his eyelids closed, fluttering. Eric smiles at him, Dele’s curls caught in his mouth; his eyes are melted, his cheeks flushed and he mouths something at Harry, something Harry doesn’t even have to watch his lips to interpret.

“You alright, then?” Dele smirks, somewhere hours later where romanticism has bled out and they’re all the wrong side of drunk for a wedding, standing on tables and screaming at each other. Jesse and Marcus scarpered off to the nearest flat surface hours ago, so Harry doesn’t feel too guilty.

“‘Course I am.” Harry says, disgruntled, eyes narrowed.

Dele’s smirk sharpens. Harry wonders where Eric is. He’s a feeling Dele is growing steadily and steadily more bitchy and he doesn’t have the right mentality to temper that alone.

“He’s fit.”

Harry hums.

“Big dick?”

Harry chokes on whatever vodka concoction someone shoved into his hands, scandalised.

“I don’t bloody know!”

Dele sniggers. “C’mon, Winksy. Have a wedding shag.”

Harry is now desperately searching for Eric over all the heads, on tip-toes. His search provides nothing but an ache in the back of his calves from awkwardly standing on his toes and a light crick in his neck from craning it around. Dele snorts one last time, pats his head condescendingly and wanders away to harass Harry, who’s looking rather worse for wear with his jacket half-on-half-off.

Harry definitely isn’t thinking about what Dele said when Ben corners him against the bacon roll buffet brought out for the drunkards at midnight, mutters something in his ear that sends a wave of heat so hot through Harry’s body that it’s actually painful, and drags him off to the toilets at the other side of the fancy hotel Harry has no idea how Marcus and Jesse could afford.

He definitely isn’t thinking about what Dele said when, after kissing his lips a little raw and bruised so Harry knows he will definitely feel it tomorrow, Ben pushes him gently to his knees and Harry goes easily, eagerly, pliant as a rag doll. He definitely isn’t thinking about what Dele said because when Ben flicks his trousers open with hands far too steady considering his alcohol consumption (Harry has to squeeze his thighs together to stop himself from squirming at that show of easy confidence because he’s _mortified_) and feeds the tip of his cock into Harry’s mouth, his tunnel vision is sudden and absolute. It feels like he’s drowning.

Harry knows he’s good at this, and even drunk and sloppy and temporarily lovesick (he prays it’s temporary, repeats a mantra that it is in his head like a chant), Ben’s gasps and groans at the flutter of his throat around his cock are the sweetest form of victory. Harry hums pleased around him when Ben slides a hand through his hair and starts to thrust lightly, using him carefully but just how Harry wants. He’s desperate to touch himself, can feel his own cock pressed against the tight material of his trousers so hard that it aches, but he keeps his hands anchored on Ben’s thighs to stop himself.

Ben is loud and unapologetic when he comes, telling Harry he’s pretty and so good, and Harry manages to whine around a mouthful of dick as his cheeks flush at the praise, swallowing it down easily and only grimacing a little at the taste. Ben offers him a hand up and he takes it gladly, brushing himself off, knowing he looks a state but hoping it’s an attractive one; trousers tented, hair mussed, lips red and swollen and shining a little down his chin.

“Christ.” Ben pants. “Fuck, Harry, you’re gorgeous.”

Harry preens. Ben kisses him sweetly, and Harry likes that he doesn’t make a big deal about the taste. He presses himself closer into him so Ben can feel how hard he is against his thigh. Ben smirks against his lips and Harry thinks he could probably just dissolve.

“C’mon, then.” He teases, making easy work of Harry’s trousers. The relief of his dick being freed makes Harry sigh, head thudding back against the wall. He groans and rubs it and Ben laughs, kisses the tip of his nose.

“Please touch me.” Harry whines when Ben seems content to only dot kisses across his skin. “Ben, please - I wanna come.”

He knows he’s whinging but Ben doesn’t seem to mind, bringing up two fingers and tapping them against his lips until they open, sore and used. He laps at the pads of Ben’s fingers lazily until Ben decides they’re wet enough and then they’re rubbing against his hole and Harry gasps and Ben starts stroking him at the same time as the first finger crooks against that spot and Harry _knows_ they can hear the noise he’s making all the way back in the hall. He whines and whimpers and pants, filter utterly destroyed, begging and pleading. His legs are shaking.

“Ben, Ben, Ben.” He repeats over and over, writhing between Ben’s body and the wall, pushing back onto his fingers and into his hand and Ben’s lips quirk up at the corner and Harry comes, whole body shivering, hands grasping at Ben’s shoulders to stay upright.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He grunts once he’s recovered. Ben laughs and that makes him giggle, and then they’re close to hysterics and Harry wonders how he only met this person a few hours ago.

They clean up quickly, joking easily and chatting about all sorts, football and Brexit and Strictly Come Dancing (Harry is a secret fan; Ben howls with laughter when he unearths this), until they’re back in the hall, everything winding down, music slow and people scarce.

“Well.” Ben grins. “It’s been a pleasure, Harry.”

Harry beams. “Definitely.”

It probably should have occurred to him somewhere between letting Ben grope him on the dance floor and coming all over his suit, but he’s sprawled on his Premier Inn bed three hours later when he realises he doesn’t have Ben’s number, name or any of his details.

* * *

“That Ben fella’s got a bird now, y’know.” Dele tells him absently, combing his hair. 

Harry clenches his teeth. “No, Del. I didn’t know.”

Dele shrugs and threads a hydrangea through his button hole. He smooths his suit down, fiddles with his tie until its tight to his throat and then turns to Harry, palms turned up.

”How do I look?”

Harry smiles. He wants to shower Dele in love and affection so he crosses the distance between them and kisses him, once on the lips then on both cheeks, and hugs him into his body. His throat feels a little tight when he steps away. 

“You look perfect, Del.”

Dele’s eyes are soft even as he rolls them. He pecks Harry’s forehead and squeezes his arm, threading a flower through his buttonhole for him. 

“You’re gonna need an industrial pack of tissues for today.” Dele teases. 

Harry bleats indignantly but waves around the packs of tissues he has wedged in the inside pocket of his blazer. 

“Are you nervous?”

Dele looks at him through the mirror. “Yeah.” He admits, no bravado. “Yeah, I’m bricking it. But it’s going to be the best day of my life, too.”

Harry has to mutter something about Dier, needing to go, because his eyes feel hot and salty with tears begging to fall and emotion clings to his throat like a needy child. He takes a few deep, heaving breaths before entering Eric’s room, Jan spread across his bed and lighting up at the sight of Harry.

”Winksy!” He cries. 

Jan ruffles his hair and pulls him into his side. He’s wearing a suit identical to Harry’s, hydrangea on the lapel and he looks good. He looks so good and before his brain thinks it through, he’s announcing his grand scheme that really needed more planning. 

“The bloke I got with last wedding, the one I thought I like, loved, or whatever - he’s got a missus.” Harry reels off. Eric sighs where he’s staring at himself in the mirror. Harry ignores him. “And I don’t wanna seem _single_ so, I mean, we could pretend to be together? Don’t you think that’d work, I think that’d totally work.”

Jan snorts. “There is nothing wrong with being single, Winksy.” Harry opens his mouth to retort. “But, yes, this sounds fun, although very stupid, so I think will help you.” 

Eric groans and knocks his forehead off the mirror. “You two are fucking ridiculous. At _my_ wedding. You’re our best men!”

Harry grins, skipping over to smooth his hands across Eric’s shoulders. “Oh, but isn’t that so much better. The groom and groom’s best men are _also_ together. How romantic!”

”I’m going to tell Dele, Winksy, and Dele is going to kill you.” 

Harry sticks his his tongue out and asks to see Eric’s speech, checks his pockets for the rings and excitedly buzzes between Eric and Dele’s rooms until they both bellow at him to fuck off. He then sits in the car, cowed, for half an hour waiting for them to be ready with only Championship game radio commentary for company. _Jan_ wasn’t exiled. Bastard.

Dele and Eric do things more traditionally than Marcus and Jesse did. Harry thinks it says rather a lot about their relationship dynamic but they’d both snap at him for saying that so he holds his lips between his teeth and keeps quiet. Eric stands at the altar, fiddling antsily with his cuff links and brushes through his hair like there’s anything more than scratchy stubble. Harry smiles as he strokes through his beard; he got it specially trimmed for the first time yesterday, just for today. 

Dele strolls down the aisle, with Mr. Hickford beaming beside him and Harry knows it’s going to be a long, tiring day for his tear ducts because that alone is enough to set him off. Eric looks at Dele like he hung the stars and created the moon, eyes glittering with so much love Harry feels it himself; so much of it it spills out of the two of them. Dele’s eyes are damp and his cheeks are all crinkled with the size of his smile and Harry just sighs, warmth fluttering through his whole body. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy. 

Watching the two people he loves the most in the world cementing their love for each other makes Harry understand why people say weddings are so beautiful. He loves them, hates them in equal measure, but looking at Dele and Eric softly reciting their vows, hand in hand and radiating happiness, he knows this is more than that. He’s gone through a whole pack of tissues by the time they finally kiss, heatedly and widely inappropriate, definitely deserving of the wolf-whistle Harry starts and Jan joins in with. Everyone laughs and claps and Harry beams. 

“Harry’s making Jan pretend to be his boyfriend.” Eric announces at the head table, for everyone including their family to hear and Harry blisters bright red and buries his face in his smoked salmon terrine.

”You what?” Dele barks, gaze swivelling to Harry who’s finding the cress on his plate incredibly interesting. 

“He wants to make Ben jealous.” Eric announces, and Harry opens his mouth in disgust, prepared to defend his honour because how _dare_ Eric accuse him of something so callous- 

“Ahhh.” Dele sniggers. “Makes sense.” 

Jan is smirking beside him and Harry silently begs a god he doesn’t believe in to save him from this mortification, to gift him a hole in the floor to swallow him up but, alas, life is cruel and he has to spend the entirety of the starter of his best friends’ wedding being made fun of. He supposes it’s reassuring that nothing has changed. 

“Don’t ruin my bloody wedding with this stunt.” Dele hisses in his ear on his way to the toilet and Harry goes to snap back but reminds himself that this is Dele’s day and he needs to be on his best behaviour. 

Jan does his speech first, squeezing Harry’s hand under the table before he stands up. He’s so easily funny and likeable that his speech seems to fly by in mere minutes, humorous and sweet and he ends it with a sloppy kiss to Eric’s cheek that makes everyone cheer. Harry’s nerves are a set of bricks in the pit of his stomach. He fixes his eyes on a spot slightly above the table he _knows_ Ben is sat at even though he hasn’t seen him yet, and begins. 

He tells everyone about his favourite Dele stories, like them becoming friends that first day on the football pitch because he was the only one to tell Harry his kit was on inside out, and the time the two of them were escorted back to Harry’s Mum’s by the police for discarding their clothes somewhere between the club and the walk home. Dele hisses at him for the story but everyone laughs and Harry pinks proudly, taking a deep shaky breath. 

“And now I don’t wanna be cheesy.” He giggles. He knows Dele is rolling his eyes. “But Dele and Eric are my favourite people in the world, and I think I know how happy they make each other better than most. They’re so disgustingly loved up, they deserve each other, y’know.” He chuckles nervously. “It’s nice being around people who love each other like that. It’s nice looking at them and knowing that love does exist.” 

Jan is making vomiting noises beside him and Harry is close to making them himself; it’s sickening but he’s nothing if not an earnest, sincere boy and when he swivels round, Dele and Eric are holding hands, thumbs rubbing against each other’s thumbs, smiling at him so softly. _We love you_, Dele mouths, and Harry watches them long enough to catch the _dickhead_ he adds and that makes him snort, tension bled out of him. He holds up his glass and there’s a clatter of cutlery and heavy chairs as everyone stands. 

“To Dele and Eric.” He beams, and everyone choruses it. 

“Long time, no see, eh?” Harry hears behind him as he watches their first dance, something Portuguese he supposes is cute. He pinches Jan’s thigh at the sound of the voice and, on queue, Jan wraps his arm around his shoulders. 

“Alright, mate.” Harry says, trying to beam like he would normally. “This is my boyfriend, Jan.” 

Jan extends a hand and turns up the charm dangerously high. Ben’s eyebrows are raided high at the news and Harry feels vaguely indignant that he’s so shocked by it. He pulls Jan back with his hand clawed and kisses his jaw. Jan jerks away from him and Harry stamps on his foot. 

“Uh, well. Nice to meet you.” Ben says, confused. “This is Sophie.” 

Ben gestures to his side, to a girl not dissimilar to the one Harry had danced with for all of two minutes at Harry’s wedding - Carly or Katie or something - who smirks at Harry. It’s disturbingly reminiscent of Ben’s smirk but Harry supposes maybe that’s the kind of couple they are, and kisses her on both cheeks trying to keep his smile plastered on his face. 

“Nice to meet you.” He says tightly, nodding at them both. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”

Harry drags Jan onto the dance floor, wrapping his arms tight around his waist and only loosening them when Jan winces and says _you’re giving me bruises, Winksy_. Harry flushes embarrassed and turns away to sit in the corner and sulk but Jan grabs hold of his hand and spins him around until he starts giggling and just for a little bit he forgets about Ben and his new pretty, petite girlfriend with _freckles_ because Dele and Eric trot over to them and they dance as a four, badly and embarrassing but Harry remembers how happy he is and how much love he still has; even if he doesn’t have one of his own. 

“He’s been staring at you all night, Harry.” Jan mumbles in his ear, red wine scented. “You should maybe speak to him.”

Harry goes to retort, but he looks at Dele and Eric entirely lost in each other, Jesse sat on Marcus’ lap as Marcus exasperatedly feeds him canapés. He looks at Harry and Kate dancing an old fashioned two step together with Kate’s pregnant tummy in between and he thinks about how Jan checks his phone every few minutes and smiles because Mousa on his Chinese business trip still sends him messages regardless of the time difference. He turns to Ben who’s staring at him steadily, sat alone, and he sighs. 

“Hiya.” Harry says quietly, pulling up a chair to sit beside him. The legs make a screeching noise against the floor. The silence after the scraping stops is comical. 

“Hi, Harry.” Ben says just as softly. He smiles at Harry, small and genuine. Harry despises the way his skin prickles. 

“Your boyfriend seems nice.” He says, no hint of anything but sincerity in his voice. He gestures towards Jan who’s dancing with Dele’s grandma. Harry snorts. 

“Your girlfriend, too.”

Ben stares at him. “Sorry, what?”

Harry eyebrows scrunch up for a minute in confusion. Does Ben think he’s thick? “Your girlfriend. The girl you’re with, whatsherface. Sophie.”

“I-“ Ben laughs, loud and clear. Harry tries not to get too disgruntled. “I asked Dele if I could bring a plus-one so my sister could come along. That’s my _sister_, Winksy.” 

Harry groans. He groans, and drags his hands down his face, puts them back over his eyes and digs his nails into his cheeks. He’s fuchsia pink, absolutely devastated, so mortified he tries to scout the nearest exit through the cover of his fingers.

“I can’t believe.” Ben says, still laughing far too loudly. “I can’t believe you thought that, oh my God. Couldn’t you notice?”

”I did think you looked quite similar.” Harry whines miserably. “I just thought you might be one of those blokes.”

Ben barks and it’s another three minutes before he’s calm enough to speak a word. He brings a hand up to pull Harry’s hands away from his face and Harry tries not to preen like an over pampered cat at the touch. Ben is smiling fondly at him, cradling Harry’s hands in his own. He kisses his cheek lightly, sweetly and Harry wants to cry, he wants to propose, he wants to have 12 children with him and share his meagre pension. 

“Jan isn’t my boyfriend.” Harry whispers. “He’s got a husband called Mousa who’s a millionaire and sends him hearts at 2 in the morning China time.”

Ben snorts again but tries to muffle it this time with a hand over his mouth. He, thankfully, doesn’t make fun of Harry anymore; maybe he too agrees Harry’s done a good enough job of that himself. He just pecks Harry and stands up with one of his hands still in Harry’s.

”Well, then, Harry.” He smirks. “Seeing as you’re single, would you care to dance?” 

Harry looks behind Ben to where Jan is goofily giving him a thumbs up and Dele is clapping his hands slowly, exaggeratedly, eyebrow arched perfectly. He smiles sheepishly at the lot of them and lifts himself up.

”I thought you’d never ask.” He grins.

* * *

”Oh, Harry.” His Mum sobs. “Oh, you look so handsome. My little boy all grown up!”

Harry smiles sheepishly and lets his Mum pinch his cheek. “Thanks, Mum. You look gorgeous, too.”

She chuckles, waving a dismissive hand around. “Good luck, darling. We love you so much.” 

She kisses his cheek and moves back to allow his Dad to do the same, and then his Grandma and then, with a prod from Mum, Millie. Harry wants to tell her how beautiful she looks in her bridesmaid dress, bouquet of flowers and plaits in her hair but he bites his tongue because he doesn’t want to embarrass her 10 minutes before she leads him down the aisle. 

Ben’s eyes glint when he seems him, hand already held out for him before he’s even within reach. He takes it blindly, focusing solely on him, and the warmth and softness of his skin is a soothing comfort. He gulps down a breath, tries to smile without sobbing and Ben runs a finger across his cheekbone. 

“Hey.” He whispers softly. 

“Hey.” Harry replies. “Nervous.”

Ben smiles and pecks his forehead. “Don’t be. We already know.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, we do.” 

Ben turns further towards the minister, silence blanketing over the guests. “Should maybe be worried about my speech, though. It’s a masterpiece. Brutally honest. Everyone will know how ridiculous you were.” He teases and Harry makes a massive show of gulping in faux fear before they giggle softly and everything begins. 


End file.
